


A Dream Within A Dream

by crashbang



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Barebacking, Dacryphilia, Don't Try This At Home, Excessive Amount of Darlings Used, M/M, Rimming, Slytherin Mark Lee, Smut, Tiniest Hint of Plot, Unrealistic Sex, veela donghyuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:34:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26797429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crashbang/pseuds/crashbang
Summary: "I should have let her kill you," Mark says gruffly, annoyed and aroused and everything in between. "I should've lost."Donghyuck hums, his smile growing wider. "But then," he purrs, lifting a shoulder elegantly, "you wouldn't get to see this."(Alternately: Mark is a poor British lad trying to win the Triwizard Tournament for his school. Donghyuck is the Veela who keeps eluding him until, one day, he doesn't.)
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Comments: 69
Kudos: 420





	A Dream Within A Dream

**Author's Note:**

> This is my quite belated fic for the first day of Kinktober (monsterfucking). I learned about kinktober from the wonderful aoa user @thereisnoreality, so please give her love! This fic is also devoted to Patty, because she introduced me to the concept of Slytherin! Mark and I have never been happier. 
> 
> I mainly decided to participate in kinktober to actually start polishing my smut writing skills, lol, because I don't usually write it. I think this goes without saying, but this isn't realistic, at all, and *small spoiler* they end up using spit as lube. (Not good! Do not recommend this! But this is a fic, at the end of the day.) 
> 
> At any rate, I would like to thank seven years of language electives (ha!), Google Translate, and a lovely French oomf for helping me write the French in this fic. If I still managed to make a linguistic error, you can always message me on Twitter or on my CC and I will fix it to the best of my abilities. 
> 
> The French will be translated at the notes at the bottom of this fic. 
> 
> One last thing: their ages aren't specified in this fic, but Mark is almost 20 and Hyuck is 19 at this point. I know this is a departure from hp canonverse, but this is fanfiction and none of this is real, so I really don't...care, lol. Basically, instead of arriving at Hogwarts at eleven, First Years go when they're twelve. They attend school for eight years instead of seven. For convenience purposes, Beauxbatons follows the same format. 
> 
> I think that's all. Happy reading!

> _Take this kiss upon the brow!  
>  _ _And, in parting from you now,  
>  _ _Thus much let me avow —_

_You are not wrong, who deem  
_ _That my days have been a dream_

* * *

There is something excruciating, yet entrancing, about watching Donghyuck float on the pool of celestial water like a modern-day Ophelia. Even like this, he is exceptionally beautiful; his hair, as black as obsidian, as molten night, as all the _dirtywrongnasty_ things Mark wants to do to him, curls around his forehead in loose tendrils. His eyes are equally oily and dark, but right now, they're closed. He's knocked out, completely unconscious, and Mark can't wake him without cutting himself on the spiky, poisonous vines that wrap around the Donghyuck's body like a cobra.

"What will you do now, Champion? The vines are already squeezing your Veela to death."

The Guardian of the second trial of the Triwizard Tournament sounds haughty and bored, just like every other magical creature in this bloody country. He's a Fae, the second son of the second daughter of the Faerie Queene of the Pyrenees, and that might mean something to someone else, but Mark is a Lee and a Malfoy, and he doesn't bow to anyone.

"Brilliant," Mark says, "at least I'll finally be rid of his temper." _And his cheek, dear Lord._

"You lie, mortal. _Le Lac de Désirachés_ would not have chosen him if he was not your most prized possession in all of France."

"Well, there you go," Mark says, scrutinizing the vines, "we're in _France._ Believe me, if this was in England, my bloody bartender would take his place."

"Then perhaps you should let him die, _non_? Why spend the trouble saving him?"

"I'd lose the competition." Mark grins, as sharp as hammered silver. "Can't have that, can we? The Slytherins would kick me out before I could say parseltongue—"

_Oh._

Parseltongue.

Something must have changed in his voice—or maybe it's his facial expression—because the Fae raises a brow. His blue skin turns a little bluer, and he says sorrowfully, "So you've finally figured it out, have you? It took you long enough... but then again, you are an Englishman."

It's too bad Headmistress Dampierre snatched his wand out of his pocket last night. A quick _mutatio skullus_ would suffice right about now. Call him a hypocrite, but he really doesn't like French arrogance—although, of course, there are always exceptions.

"You know," Mark says conversationally, straightening his spine, finally twisting his gaze away from the Veela, _his_ Veela, "I don't reckon I've shared enough about my roots. My forefathers were hunters; that's where we accumulated our wealth. My personal favorite in our collection is a Faerie head above the mantle of our fireplace. It's rather beautiful, I'd say, and looks a whole lot like _you_."

The Fae scoffs, although the navy blue in his skin mellows to a periwinkle.

"Am I supposed to be scared of you, Englishman? _S'il te plait_."

"I never said, scared. I'd prefer _wary._ "

The Fae says something else, something entirely in French, but Mark's never been good at languages, and he doesn't have time to waste. He rolls up the sleeves of his robes—there's no real reason; it just helps him think—and strides to the edge of the lake.

A lake is a lake, and this one, nestled between the snow-covered peaks of South France, isn't all that different from the one at Hogwarts. Except, of course, for the fact that the water shimmers green, like the emeralds rings and jade pendants Mum enjoys wearing. There's also the matter of the vines, but those seem... seasonal.

Mark kneels by the water.

If this goes wrong, if _he's_ wrong, he's going to look like a blithering buffoon, but well. At least the Veela won't be able to see it. Silver linings.

" _aahh seetha ssssss hASS seett hasseyyy seh sssss_."

_Hello, mate. Can you hear me?_

Nothing. The water doesn't change color, and the vines don't stop constricting Donghyuck.

Donghyuck's face, glowing like molten gold, as sweet and intoxicating as a gladiolus, is slowly, slowly turning blue. Not Fae blue. I’m-dying-from-lack-of-oxygen-blue.

Fuck, fuck.

He has to—he has to make this work, somehow. He can. He will. Because there is something here, something thrumming underneath the coarse sandbank. Magic. But it's not just any sort of magic; it's the magic that has wrapped him in a cloak of protection since he was five. The magic of the cunning, the clever, the ambitious. The magic of the snake. It doesn't matter if this is France, or that he's at Beauxbatons and not at Hogwarts.

The magic of the House of Slytherin lives on, and he knows it when he feels it.

“ _Hathehhh sehh sss ayaaa sehh haaaaAAS_.”

_My name is Mark Lee._

"I need your help," Mark continues in Parseltongue. He hasn't spoken Salazar's language since he was ten—there was no need at Hogwarts—but forming the words feels like tasting a forgotten childhood dish. "That boy you're holding, the Veela? He belongs to me, I'm afraid. I'm going to need him back."

The lake transforms from emerald to a murkier olive color; waves crash on the shore.

"I don't want to fight you for him," Mark says quickly, holding out his hand to appease the beast. "He's—he's not worth it, really, even if he is pretty." He pauses and tilts his head, considering what to say next. "But... but you're probably prettier, aren't you, darling?"

That spawns some sort of intrinsic, narcissistic desire in the vine-serpent-thing. (Mark needs a better name.) The vines rumble a little, ruffling as if the snake is tangling her fingers through her hair. (It _feels_ like a her. He wants to name her Cassandra, but she probably already has a name, and it feels rude to call her something she isn't.)

"You have no idea how much trouble he is," Mark says encouragingly. He dips his voice so that it's low and sultry like he's on a date at Madame Puddifoot's. "He tried to sabotage me during the first round of the Tournament—he told me dragons didn't breathe fire if you tickled their tails—and almost got me killed. What a brat, right? Not like you, love. You wouldn't do that to me, would you?"

Donghyuck's deception didn't even matter in the end, because Mark won the competition, anyway. The Beauxbatons Champion—Henry? Hendry?—lost.

Granted, Mark had been pissed at the moment—getting chased by a fire-breathing dragon isn't _fun_ , especially during a Quidditch game—but his irritation melted away the moment the Veela approached him at the celebratory dinner. Donghyuck had still been scowling, of course, but he seemed more fascinated than enraged. With his chin pressed on top of his fist, he plopped down beside Mark and gazed at him lazily for what felt like infinity.

"You're not as stupid as you look," he had said with a slight accent. "I shouldn't have underestimated you."

He stole Mark's flagon of wine and sauntered away to his usual spot with his friends after saying that.

"You don't want him, darling," Mark continues. "You want someone much nicer, blonder, buffer, someone much more handsome, etcetera. Perhaps the Hogwarts Champion in the Triwizard Tournament?"

He wags his eyebrows flirtily in the general direction of the lake.

Slowly, almost abashedly, the vines bunch together, like a maiden who is hiding from a persistent suitor.

Well. Mark hadn't expected that—girls love his charm, alright?—but at least it does the trick.

A few more eyebrow wags and winks later, the thorns in the vines recede. The vines shrink and slip into the moss-green lake.

_Really? That quickly? Am I that unattractive she has to run away screaming?_

Mark suppresses his inner dilemma and turns around, smirking as he makes eye contact with the Fae.

"Well, Guardian? Did I complete the task?"

"The task, _imbécile_ , was to save your loved one from danger, _non_?"

"Are you taking the piss? Did I or did I not just do that?"

" _Cet idiot_ —are you blind to what's behind you?"

"No," Mark says, "but why are you you yelling?"

" _Mon Dieu_! Just turn around!"

Scoffing, Mark looks over his shoulder. The old bastard's probably just pulling his leg like a kid yelling, 'look, a hippogriff!' when there's clearly nothing in the sky except for a rolling, dense cloud.

Wait. No. Fuck.

"What's _that_?" Mark cries, horrified.

A string of angry French erupts from the Guardian's mouth, which is rather unfair. _He's_ the one who's supposed to make sure they don't die. Then again, if he does that, Mark loses by default—and why is he thinking about that _now_?

"Listen, Fae," Mark snaps, paling and wishing he had his wand, "you're gonna have to translate for me. What _is_ that thing?"

"It's not a _thing_. It is the spirit of a scorned woman."

"Mate, that looks like a giant fucking snake."

"Her name is Adelaide Renée," the Guardian says, ignoring Mark, "and she is a relic of the Ancient World. Before my Queen and before your Merlin was even born, she was trapped here by forces I can't explain."

"Thanks for the history lesson," says Mark, "but that explains literally nothing."

It doesn't explain why there's a gigantic snake—as tall as his ancestral manor—in the middle of the lake. The snake's scales are pewter-colored, and her pupils swallow up her sclera. She doesn't have stripes, but the end of her tail is alabaster-white and forked.

More importantly, it doesn't even begin to explain why she's holding onto Donghyuck like he's a baby rattle.

"Do I really need to lay everything out for you? She contains the spirit of a woman abandoned by a lover for someone lovelier than her. She will not let it happen again, Englishman."

"Are you saying she's jealous?"

"What a crude way to put it." He purses his lips at nods. " _Mais oui_. I think she's formed an attachment to you."

Mark runs a hand through his hair. He feels a migraine forming in the back of his head. Merlin, it was so much easier when the only obstacle in his path was a temperamental Romanian Longhorn.

"How do I get her to, like, not do that?"

"You must negotiate with her."

"Brilliant," Mark says. "How?"

"My job was to save your life, Champion, not win you a competition. You shouldn't have sweet-talked her to begin with, and now you will simply have to pay the price." He shrugs. " _C'est_ _la vie_."

_Merlin and Morgana, I want to deck you in the face._

Mark pastes on a fake, aristocratic smile—the kind of smile Mum and grandmother love to make at family reunions. You learn to lie when you're a Lee. You learn to lie before you even understand what magic is.

“C’est la vie,” Mark echoes. "Sure."

Then, turning his back on the Fae, he wades into the lake. The air is heavy with the past. He keeps moving. By the time he stops, the cold water is lapping at his shoulders. This close up to the snake lady, he can't quite make out her eyes anymore, but he can spot the minute scratches in her hexagonal scales. Her body is thick and heavy, curved like a plate. She is holding onto Donghyuck the way a noose holds onto a hanging man.

Trapped in her clutch, the Veela is limp and boneless, like a doll without seams. Her eyes are still closed, and they won't open until the nurses at Beauxbatons give him the right reviving draught. Donghyuck's gonna be livid when he realizes what he went through. He's gonna be such a pain.

Mark grins at the thought.

Then, he looks up and yells in Parseltongue, "Renée! I have something to give you!"

## ❧

Alixandre Ilbert Sauvageau is a young Fae. He is only two-hundred years old, give or take a decade, and for as long as he can remember, he has served his grandmother. She is older than the stars in the sky and wiser than the trees on their land. When she squeezed his hands two months ago and asked him to assist the Headmistress of Beauxbatons, he swallowed his doubts and nodded.

Then, he learned he would be a glorified babysitter to an English wizard and promptly wished he had gained the courage to refuse her request.

But now, as he watches the wizard hoist the Veela in his arms, tucking the Veela's head under his chin and nuzzling the crown of crow-colored hair, Alixandre wonders if, perhaps, just perhaps, he had been wrong about everything.

## ❧

The Fae gives Mark the Portkey, but before he can use it to transport them back to school, Donghyuck wakes up. Mark doesn't know he manages to do it—maybe the nymphs hadn't calibrated the sleeping potion for a half-Veela—but it doesn't really matter. He forgets everything he's supposed to care about once he sees the gold specks in Donghyuck's raven eyes.

"You're awake?"

"You're an idiot," Donghyuck grumbles, teeth chattering, lips blue. " _Je ne peux pas croire que ça t' a pris si longtemps._ "

Before Mark can even reply, before he can so much as begin to ask Donghyuck what the hell he's saying, Donghyuck surges forward and touches the portkey.

## ❧

"This... isn't Beauxbatons," Mark says dumbly.

Beauxbatons is an elegant, classic French chateau surrounded by dozens of self-pruning gardens. The walls are powder-blue, and the doors compliment you if you can recite Jean Chapelain's _La Pucelle_ from memory. (Mark cannot. He still has no idea who Chapelain is or why he should care about a Muggle. The doors do not like him.) All the furniture is arranged in an artful, sophisticated manner. The gold-leaf sparrows on the wallpaper recite old ballads; the shadows formed from the sparkling chandeliers tell you about all of the hidden crooks and crannies in the school.

This room, the room Mark is standing in now, is austere in comparison. The walls are made out of damp stone, without any talkative birds painted on them, and the wood floor is weathered. There is a fireplace with a marble mantle, but it's not lit. A mirror hangs above the mantle, dirty and grimy, and cracked, but Mark's magic pulls him away from it and pushes him toward the other end of the room: the canopy bed. This, at least, is more interesting. The mattress is clean but dusty; the blankets are silk and scarlet, embroidered with elaborate saffron crocuses.

"Your eloquence knows no bounds," Donghyuck drawls. Surprisingly, he's still holding onto Mark, even going as far as rubbing circles on the edge of Mark's jaw with his thumb. "But no, we're not in Beauxbatons. This is _L’île aux Étoiles_ , a small town in the mountains. We like to come here sometimes during the holidays."

"We?"

"Me," Donghyuck clarifies, a teasing tilt to his voice, "Hendery, Lucas, perhaps a lover of mine, if I feel so inclined."

Mark grunts, annoyed. He's not even looking at Donghyuck directly, but he can feel his presence like a hand on his throat, like a voice in his head: an insistent, ravenous tugging, asking him to give up, to give in. It's not that Donghyuck is beautiful. It's that he knows he's mesmerizing; that he can, with a single tilt of his head, a twitch of his lips, make a man fall to his knees. It's that he's hungry and cruel and somehow stupidly daring.

Mark doesn't understand the last part, but he understands everything else. He understands that Donghyuck is the only prize that can't be won.

Maybe that's why he wants him.

Maybe that's why he throws Donghyuck on the bed with more force than necessary, a hot buzzing feeling traveling across every inch of his skin.

Donghyuck's answering grin is every bit as sharp as the silver chains around Mark's neck. Other people, ordinary people, people whose mothers aren't Veela, might look awkward if they've just been thrown around. Donghyuck doesn't. Like a cat, he curls in on his side, his body contorting into an S shape readily. His robes are soaked, sticking to his skin and showing the outline of his legs, his hips, the soft protrusion of his belly.

His irises are as soft as soot; his words are as smooth and low and burning as warmed liqueur.

"Why are you so angry?" he asks smugly. "I was just answering your question."

"I should have let her kill you," Mark says gruffly, annoyed and aroused and everything in between. "I should've lost."

Donghyuck hums, his smile growing wider. "But then," he purrs, lifting a shoulder elegantly, "you wouldn't get to see _this_."

He unfastens his robes, somehow—Mark doesn't know how—and peels the cotton material off his body. First, he uncovers his left shoulder, then his other one, then his chest and belly and the slightly darker patch of flesh where his thighs meet his hips. Finally, Donghyuck rolls his wet robes down his hips. His stomach flexes, his arms tremble a little—he's supporting all of his weight on his abdomen and upper body—but there's a smile dancing on his face, and his eyes never leave Mark's.

When he's done, he flicks his wrist, and his robes fold themselves neatly at the foot of the bed.

Part of Mark registers that Donghyuck is sending him a message. _I could have taken my robes off with a simple wandless spell, Lee, but I didn't, because..._

This is the part where Mark's brain loses to his base instincts because he doesn't really know what Donghyuck's little show was for, but he knows there is a naked Veela in front of him, all smooth skin and subtle lines, all gold and honey and wine, all his for the taking. (Is it, his for the taking? He doesn't know. He has to find out.)

"You think I'm pretty," Donghyuck tests slowly. "My... body, you like it." He bats his lashes. "Don't you?"

The buzz intensifies into lightening. Fire ignites in Mark's belly, pooling at the base of his cock, hardening it, making it stand.

Everything feels hazy as he stalks to the bed. Dreamlike. Woozy. How much of it is because of the Veela's charm? How much of it is because Mark can't register this is happening? He doesn't know. He doesn't care. The past two months are condensing and collecting, clumping together like wet spider silk. He remembers all the times Donghyuck's gaze bored into him, and all the times he stared back shamelessly. All the times they touched, quick, fleeting touches as they passed each other the bread, or scrolls during class, or some other mundane item one of them was conveniently missing. Then there was the incident in the arboretum—it's fueled his wet dreams for weeks now—and he hasn't been able to stop thinking about this annoyingly gutsy Veela, about what it would feel like if he finally got him to shut him up with fingers in his mouth and a cock in his ass. (Or the other way around; he's not picky.)

"You're more than pretty," Mark says, the mattress dipping as he crawls on top of it. His heart hammers in his chest, a hammer banging against the stone walls of his lungs. "Stop being humble."

"Who said I was humble?"

Donghyuck's hands latch on to his robes. His grip is tight, controlling.

"Then you were just fishing for compliments," Mark replies. "I'm not bloody well going to give you any, just so you know."

Donghyuck yanks him closer; Mark goes willingly until his arms form a cage around Donghyuck's head, and his legs bracket the boy's hips.

This close together, Donghyuck's breath warms Mark's cheeks, makes them tingle when he replies, "Say that after you're done fucking me, and maybe then I'll believe you."

Mark's breath stutters for a moment, but there's a pretty, almost-invisible pink flush crawling up Donghyuck's neck, and that's all the confirmation he needs.

He cups Donghyuck's chin and jerks it upwards. Donghyuck's lips part, like he didn't expect Mark to do that, and Mark grins wildly at him, tracing the contours of his mouth with his eyes before he brings his head down for a hungry, clumsy kiss. Donghyuck's lips are as soft as they look, which is a gratifying discovery. The way he tugs on Mark's robes, almost instinctively, like a knee-jerk reaction, is even better. Mark obliges him, presses closer, somehow, until they're lying on top of each other until the heat of Donghyuck's bare skin crawls inside of Mark.

He bites Donghyuck's bottom lip and slips his tongue inside of his mouth. Donghyuck lets him, goes as far as moving his tongue in tandem with Mark's, until they're both licking into each other. He tastes like the charred edges of custards—sweet, sort of sweet, but also like ash, like the remnants of a fire.

Mark never knew he liked the feeling of almost being burned this much. But he does.

He likes it, and he also likes pushing most of his weight on Donghyuck, caging him until it feels like their hearts are beating merging. Donghyuck makes a small, annoyed sound, but when Mark bites his lip again, drawing the tiniest bit of coppery blood, he gets lost in the kiss.

They kiss and kiss and kiss until Donghyuck lets out a soft sigh and pulls away.

Mark opens his eyes.

Donghyuck rotates his head so that his side profile faces Mark instead of his mouth. Still, Mark can make out the _slight_ glossiness on the surface of his eyes and the varnish of spit on his plump, swollen lips.

"Wait," Donghyuck says rapidly, pulling away from Mark, "wait—before—before— _j'ai besoin de_ —"

"English," Mark murmurs, taking this opportunity to lick a stripe across Donghyuck's ear lobe to his jaw. "Can't fuck you the way you want if I don't know what you're saying, can I?"

"Learn French," Donghyuck retorts, but his voice wavers, almost cracks, probably because of Mark's careful administrations. "You're in _my_ country."

"Maybe I will," Mark promises, before sucking Donghyuck's earlobe, rolling the skin gently between his teeth. "Maybe I'll make you teach me."

Donghyuck lets out his first proper moan, then, although it's still too stifled for Mark's liking. It's progress, though, a step in the right direction.

Mark's not letting him leave this bed until he pleads until he's undone and boneless.

"Make me?" Donghyuck says when Mark finally stops. His voice is strained, ragged, as if he's trying to force it under control. "No man could make me do anything."

He's not wrong. He's not right, either. No man can force a Veela into something, not without spells or potions or other magical chains, but Mark isn't interested in tying up Donghyuck. At least, not in the way Donghyuck thinks.

"You won't have to be made to do anything," Mark says. "You'll do it because you want to, but you'll want to because of _me_."

Finally, _finally_ , Donghyuck turns around, looking at him again. His brow is furrowed, his lips pulled into a slight grimace, the face he makes whenever he can't dispute what someone else is saying. (It doesn't happen often, but it does happen.) Mark's not interested in his incredulity, though. Mark's interest lies in the rosiness of his cheeks, the swelling of his lips, the way his skin glows no matter the circumstance.

"I won't want anything if you don't take this off," Donghyuck growls, squeezing Mark's robes. "Hurry up, Lee."

"Not gonna use a fancy trick to help me?"

"Why should I? I want to see you struggle."

"You're horrid," Mark says, but he can't stop the smile that steals across his face. "I should leave you like this, naked and shameless, and head back out on my own."

Donghyuck smiles, and Mark knows he's made a mistake.

"You can do that if you want," he says, so agreeable and pleasant that it's dangerous, "but I'll just wait for someone else to come—do you know we're in a room above a bar?—and fuck me. Lots of men will, if I let them, and I _will_ let them if you don't do it first."

His words are like throwing gasoline on an already lit fire, like trying to stop a forest fire with a matchstick; something dark and heady swirls inside Mark like ink in a cup of water. He's never going to let another man walk through this door. For as long as they're both in this bed, Donghyuck is his, only his.

After all, Mark is a Slytherin, and Slytherins aren't known for their generosity. He's selfish, so selfish, and he wants everything, all for himself, all of the time.

But Mark's not stupid, either.

"You know," he says, uncurling from Donghyuck and straightening until he's sitting up, "trying to manipulate a Slytherin is like a Muggle trying to invent the Sorceror's Stone—it's just not going to happen."

He misses the heat of Donghyuck's body, but the genuinely miffed look on his face almost makes up for it. Donghyuck's brow deepens from a furrow to a sharp crease until it resembles the ridge of a valley. His jaw tightens, which always happens when he can't figure out what to do next, when he realizes that he was, for once, outmaneuvered.

Mark raises a single brow at him, egging him on, but before Donghyuck can snap, he slides his robes up and chucks them somewhere to the side. Then, he's left in his shirt and tie and slacks. (A friend introduced him to Muggle clothing during his First Year, and hasn't looked back since.)

"You're wearing all of _that_?"

There's no mistaking the disappointment in Donghyuck's voice.

Mark grins, delighted, but—maybe he should be nice. At least a little bit nicer. There's going to be plenty of time to be mean later.

"Patience, love," Mark chides. His smile grows broader at Donghyuck's tiny, affronted squeak. "Or else I'll think you've already started begging."

"You haven't even fucked me yet, and you're still so arrogant. I can't believe I still—"

He breaks off suddenly, his gaze darting to Mark and then away from him.

"Still what?" Mark presses.

"It's nothing."

"I'm not sticking my dick in your lovely derrière until you tell me."

That earns him a venomous glare. "As if you could resist _me_."

"No," Mark says, "but aren't you too proud to rely on your Veela charms to bring a man to bed, Donghyuck?"

Donghyuck swallows. "I'll do anything to get what I want."

Mark sighs.

"Tell me, anyway, or I won't fuck you like I really want to, and we'll both hate each other by the end of this."

"Don't we already?"

Mark's heart twists. If only it were that easy.

" _Tell me_ ," he says, yanking off his tie, not even attempting to be gentle, "or I'll fuck that boy from Potions you don't like."

Donghyuck's eyes flash. "You wouldn't dare."

"He's fit," Mark says, "and he's got a sweet personality. Why wouldn't I dare?"

"Stop," Donghyuck says tightly, lips thinning. "Stop it."

"Why? I can do anything I want, too." Mark smirks because Donghyuck isn't the only one capable of sticking a knife in someone's spine and twisting the handle. "I like his dimples and he's got a nice smile. Besides, I've heard he has a thing for Chasers. I don't reckon it'd be so hard to take him out to dinner and get a good blowjob afterward—"

Donghyuck lunges forward, like a rubber band that has been pulled taut and suddenly released—no, that's not right. He's wilder than a simple string. He's a wolf racing to destroy an elk in the dead of winter; he's a lion thundering after a gazelle in the blistering heat of the savannah. His black eyes have the tiniest tinge of red to them now, like bloodied water; his teeth are sharper, more pointed, fang-like. Suddenly, irrevocably, Mark understands why so many fairytales center around a Veela, around someone who can seduce you and rip out your throat in a matter of seconds. Anyone who thinks sex is all Donghyuck is capable of is a fool. He's a predator, capable of ravaging, and taking, and killing.

Mark's always known that, though.

He's a Slytherin and a Malfoy, but he's also a Lee. And in ancient Korea, the Lee line of wizards were all Hunters. They left the safety of their homes to slay the beasts that roamed the mountains and the valleys and every place in between. They liked the thrill of the chase, the uncertainty behind the madness. They were addicted to it.

Some things are lost in time, but some things, like these instincts, are passed on.

So, when Donghyuck pulls on the strands of his hair with sharp talons, Mark doesn't wince. When small, ivory, hornlike stubs germinate on Donghyuck's head, he doesn't fall back or run away.

After all, he's known from the beginning that, much like Malfoys, Veelas are proud, jealous, temperamental creatures.

" _Non,_ " Donghyuck snarls. " _Tu—tu peux pas! Non!_ "

Using his quick, Quidditch-polished reflexes, Mark grabs Donghyuck's wrists. Donghyuck bares his teeth, a clear warning, but Mark doesn't let go. He leverages his grip and wrestles Donghyuck down, down, down onto his lap, until he can feel the tent in Mark's pants for himself.

"Okay, fine," Mark says soothingly, starting to rock up gently, "I'm not fucking anyone that's not you, okay? Okay, love?"

Donghyuck snarls again, an angry, violent, betrayed sound.

"I'm not," Mark repeats. "I won't. You're prettier than him, anyway. You're prettier than anyone else in your school, even the other Veelas."

He continues rocking his cock shallowly in the cleft of Donghyuck's ass—and God, does it feel so damned good, even like this, even if he's still wearing his slacks.

"I mean it." He's almost groaning now, and he has to squeeze Donghyuck's bird-bone wrists to keep his pace steady. "Don't want anybody except you, promise. Promise, I promise—"

With his hands still glued in Mark's grasp, with his teeth still jagged and his eyes still red, Donghyuck begins to grind down on Mark's cock, his hips rolling deftly, with experience. And this time, Mark can't stop the groan that races out of his lips, can't stop himself from panting into Donghyuck's ear.

_Merlin, Merlin, what have I gotten myself into?_

As if he knows what Mark is thinking, Donghyuck bares his teeth and breaks free of Mark's clutch. He scrapes his now-free talons along Mark's scalp until he reaches the back of Mark's neck. His nails break Mark's skin, but Mark doesn't care, can't care.

" _Baise moi_ ," Donghyuck says, shoving his face in the crook of Mark's neck, mouthing at the skin there. He's rolling his hips faster, more insistently. His voice is muffled when he says, " _Baise moi, baise moi, maintenant—_ "

Mark doesn't know any French, just _un deux trois_ , but when Donghyuck trails his talons down his back and around his waist, dragging them across his abdomen before stopping at his cock, it's obvious what wants. And, judging by Donghyuck's erection, dotted with sticky precome, he's getting quite desperate for it.

Not like Mark's any better, though.

Not like he ever even had a single flying fucking _chance_ when he's got a gorgeous, needy Veela in his lap.

"My—my zipper—"

With a short, clean snip, Donghyuck cuts it open with his claws.

Mark is torn between laughing out loud at Donghyuck's efficiency or crying out in horror at just how close Donghyuck came to castrating him. In the end, though, his horniness wins, and he lets Donghyuck manhandle his cock out of his slacks.

He isn't subtle about his inspection of Mark's prick. It should be unsexy and a turn-off, but it's not. Maybe it's the way his mouth crinkles cutely, or the way his tongue darts out for a second, or the way he blatantly and unsuccessfully tries to measure Mark's cock with his fingers, but something about his curiosity is so cute that Mark wants to flip him over and kiss him senseless. In this string of moments, Donghyuck doesn't look like a bloodthirsty Veela, and he doesn't even look like he does in his human form. He looks confused as if he's not sure what to do next, as if they're way ahead of some elaborate plan he made up in his head.

It makes Mark even harder, which ought to be impossible.

"Oi," Mark says, "oi, Donghyuck."

Donghyuck's eyes snap to him. Their normal color is slowly returning. His mouth is slightly open, and his teeth are reverting to normal, too.

Who knew Mark's cock had the magical ability to sate a bloodthirsty creature?

"I want to fuck you, _baise_ you, whatever. Nod if you understand, okay?"

Donghyuck frowns.

Mark cups his jaw.

"You have to nod if you want my dick," he says. "Come on."

Donghyuck looks reproachful—he's definitely coming back to his senses—but he finally jerks his head fractionally, albeit resentfully.

"Good," Mark breathes.

He pauses, trying to figure out what to do next. As of right now, Donghyuck is still sitting on his lap, and he's holding onto Mark's cock. Part of Mark is tempted to stand up on the bed, to urge Donghyuck to get on his knees, but—no, that's not the best plan. For one, Mark definitely wants to fuck Donghyuck tonight, and he won't get to do that if he comes in Donghyuck's mouth. Second, but most important, it doesn't... look like Donghyuck knows what to do with Mark's cock—which is fine, unexpected but fine, kind of weird but fine—and Mark doesn't want to take any chances.

"Lie down on your back," Mark decides, moving his hands down the dip in Donghyuck's smooth, golden back to his ass. "I wanna eat you out."

The Veela blinks.

"Eat...you... out? Eatez-you?"

" _Pourquoi_?"

Mark groans. _God, I really should've listened to Mum and tried to learn French._

"Like..."

Mark slaps Donghyuck's ass lightly and then mimes sipping on a spoon.

Donghyuck's eyes widen, but all he says, yet again, is, " _Pour... pourquoi?_ "

Fuck it.

Mark wraps his arms around Donghyuck's waist and flips them over in one swift move. They're back in the same position they were in the beginning, and Mark shakes his head when he realizes that they've just been rolling around like a bunch of puppies. This time, though, instead of lying on top of Donghyuck, chest-to-chest, Mark gets on his knees and pulls apart Donghyuck's legs.

Surprisingly, Donghyuck lets Mark maneuver him without protesting. He doesn't brush the messy fringe out of his face; he doesn't even seem to notice it. He's just looking at Mark, and Mark is looking at him, and something happens at this moment, some sort of implicit exchange, like an invisible baton being passed. The air grows thicker and heavier, but with more than want. Anticipation?

No, the anticipation has been here from the beginning.

Mark isn't sure what this is.

He looks away, suddenly nervous, suddenly unsure of his own movements.

He wants this to be... _good_.

He wants Donghyuck to like it, to love it, to crave it, even when it's done, even when they have to go back to school and pretend like nothing happened.

It's a selfish desire, but this is the least selfish sex he's ever had, and it's not even over yet. With all of his previous partners, he operated on a simple gain/loss system. Mark fucked them purely for his own pleasure, and they fucked him for the same reason. And it worked out, most of the time; it left both of them happy and satiated. He had sex with his first girlfriend and his first boyfriend like that, and it was fun, it was fine.

But this, _this_ , is different.

He wants... He wants...

_What does Donghyuck want?_

Does he even _like_ rimming? Does it make him come? How many other people have done it to him?

Mark frowns, squeezing, and Donghyuck winces. Guiltily, Mark loosens his hold, murmuring apologies.

"Sorry," Mark says, "sorry, I—"

"Mark?"

Mark's head whips up.

Donghyuck's face is flushed, and he pushes his sweaty hair out of his face. He's back—or close to being back—and Mark lets out a breath he didn't even know he had been holding.

"Veela," he says, "I was just about to eat you out."

Donghyuck makes a face, but his fingers dig into the bedsheets, and his pretty cock drips more pre-come.

Mark can't help but laugh.

 _How are you so bad at hiding how you actually feel_?

Donghyuck tries kicking him. "Why?" he mutters, sounding embarrassed, sounding nervous, and thrilled. "Just fuck me."

Mark tickles the back of his foot.

"Oh, I will," he promises, "but I need to loosen you up first."

Donghyuck squirms and the pink in his face starts traveling to the rest of the body. Mark watches him—he furls his hands, squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to hide his face in the pillow—and decides that, yes, this is going to be the best sex of his life. He's going to make sure of it.

He's already opened Donghyuck's legs, but now he says, "Legs over your shoulders, Veela."

His face still hidden in his pillow, Donghyuck mutters something high-pitched and rapid underneath his breath, but Mark can't make it out. It probably isn't even English, anyway.

It sounds an awful lot like a curse, though.

"Donghyuck," Mark says, letting go of his ankles, "the sooner you listen to me, the sooner you get fucked."

" _Merde_."

The merde is muffled and poisonous, but then, miraculously, Donghyuck does as he asks, groaning a little as he hooks his legs over his shoulders.

Like this, Donghyuck is bent in half, leaving every bit of him on display. Well, except for his face. His face is basically impossible to see now, which is a shame—but Mark will rectify that when he fucks into him. Now, though, he has a gorgeous view of Donghyuck's ass and his cock throbs at the sight of it. His mouth dries. That woozy feeling comes back—he's wanted this for so long, and for it to be handed to him, like a meal on a plate...

Mark bends down, brings his face closer to Donghyuck's butt, and none-too-gently pulls apart his cheeks.

Donghyuck makes a choked, surprised, guttural noise at the feeling.

Mark grins.

"S'okay, darling," he says, kneading the plump flesh. "I'm just taking a look."

Well, at least for now.

The Beauxbatons uniform hides it, but Donghyuck's body is beautiful, especially the swell of his ass. It's not big, really, but it suits his lithe frame, suits his delicate hands and broad, wheaty shoulders. Nestled inside, almost hidden, is his hole. Mark leans forward and blows warm air inside of it, just to see what will happen.

Donghyuck gasps.

"You said—you would—just _look_ —"

Mark strokes the inner cleft, rubbing near his rim. "Well, that's not really how you have sex, is it?" he replies.

He's trying to sound nonchalant, but his voice comes out affected. Strained.

Donghyuck doesn't reply. Maybe he can't. Maybe he's waiting.

Mark ghosts his lips over his hole, kissing it softly. There's the sound of shuffling bedsheets, and he knows Donghyuck is bunching them in his hands.

Is it nerves? Desperation? A mixed cocktail?

Doesn't matter.

Mark can make it all go away.

He caresses Donghyuck's rim, pressing one fluttering, close-mouthed kiss after another on the sensitive skin. After each kiss, he waits a few seconds, listening intently to Donghyuck's heavy, staccato breathing.

When he senses Donghyuck starting to calm down, he opens his mouth and laves his tongue down his cleft to his asshole.

Donghyuck startles.

"Mark. Mark—"

But Mark can't respond. He licks another long, messy line, retracing his earlier trajectory. Donghyuck doesn't taste sweet, doesn't taste like strawberries or rosé or clementines or whatever else trashy Wizarding erotica say Veelas taste like. He tastes heady. Like salt, like desperation, like musk, like _boy_.

He tastes _good_.

Mark moans into his ass; the sound vibrates, and Donghyuck cries out again. Whinier this time. Higher-pitched, less in control.

Not good enough. Not yet.

He palms Donghyuck's ass, his own cock growing harder at the way it jiggles underneath his fingertips. Then, he pulls apart the two lobes even further. Donghyuck's hole becomes bigger—or at least, it's easier to see now—so Mark brushes his lips over the center and spits inside. A line of saliva forms between his mouth and Donghyuck's hole, and yeah, it's sort of gross, but the way Donghyuck sucks it up instantly almost makes him cream his slacks.

Besides, the extra wetness makes it easier to start truly eating him out.

Drawn-out slurping, where he sucks the rim as if he's drinking a shot of salt-encrusted tequila. Once, he nibbles on the extra-tender skin on the apples of his ass, but Donghyuck's whimpers sound more pained than aroused, so he stops. He goes back to spitting and sucking and slurping. When he's done with that, when he feels his lips growing numb, he sticks his index halfway inside of Donghyuck's hole and swirls it around.

At some point, Donghyuck's body has started moving around on the bed, as if he doesn't know whether it wants to move toward or away from Mark, but when Mark starts slowly fingering him, he completely stills.

"Oh—"

_Closer, we're getting closer._

Mark looks up, eyes hooded. Donghyuck's balls loom in front of him, golden-brown and a little wrinkled, and reaches out with one hand to fondle them. With the other hand, he continues fingering the Veela, feeling for the spot that'll make him see stars. He feels pre-come slide down his own legs, but why would he care?

Donghyuck's in his arms. Mark's pleasure, for the first time in his life, comes second.

"Does that feel good?" Mark asks.

His voice is rough and hoarse from disuse. His lips are wet with Donghyuck's juices.

When Donghyuck doesn't answer, he stops moving his fingers and says, "Donghyuck?"

All that answers him is a weak whimper.

Instantly, Mark's heart jumps to his throat. He scrambles up, fear clogging his brain, making it kickstart a useless loop of: _He doesn't like it? It's too much? Have I hurt him?_

"Donghyuck," Mark says, louder this time. "Donghyuck, look at me."

Because Donghyuck's still hiding his face—or at least part of it. The part that isn't covered by the pillow is wet with tears and ruby-red.

That doesn't do anything to quell Mark's worry.

"Oi," Mark says, heart palpitating. "C'mere."

He stoops over Donghyuck and pushes him down until he's flat on his back again. Then, he attempts to take away the pillow, but Donghyuck resists, rolling over and burying his face inside of it.

"No," Mark says, "no, come here, tell me what's wrong*."

Donghyuck shakes his head.

"Why? Did it hurt?"

Another head shake.

"You...you didn't like it, then?"

Nothing.

"Veela," Mark cries, exasperated, "come on, please. Just tell me. Please?"

Donghyuck rolls over again but keeps his hands hidden in his face.

His black hair is sticky and wild and ruined.

"You," Donghyuck begins, miserable, "you made me..."

Mark pales. _I...I made him? He didn't... He didn't want to do that?_

"...come," Donghyuck whispers, and his voice is so muffled and forlorn that Mark almost doesn't understand what he's saying, " _deaux_ —two, two times. And I'm still—"

"Wait, what?"

"I'm still hard!" Donghyuck cries.

He flings his arms outward, finally, finally revealing his entire face.

His eyes are narrowed into unhappy crescents, and his lips are peeled and bloody from chewing on them. There are dried tear-tracks on his cheeks. He looks raw, scrubbed, turned inside-and-out, like laundry left to dry under a dry summer sun. He looks so fucking pretty like this, so wrecked, that Mark's cock—which had started to deflate as soon as he began to panic—stirs to life again.

"Why's that a problem?" asks Mark.

He's torn between laughing, rolling his eyes, or mounting Donghyuck and fucking him into another pair of orgasms.

" _Parce que... parce que..._!"

Mark observes him.

"This is your first time, isn't it?"

Donghyuck's mouth falls shut. He blinks rapidly.

Mark sighs through his nose. "Donghyuck—"

"It's not," Donghyuck says, shaking his head too violently for it to be anything but a lie, "it's definitely not, no, I've definitely... I've def..."

He trails off as Mark crawls toward him.

At this point, they're at the very edge of the bed. As Mark heads in his direction, Donghyuck scoots backward until his back is pressed against a wooden pole.

_You're such a terrible Veela. All this power, and you don't even know how to use it._

"I thought you were crying because it was bad," Mark says, pursing his lips as he thinks. He reaches out to cradle Donghyuck's face. "But I get it now. You got overwhelmed."

Donghyuck gulps.

Mark inches forward until they're only inches apart.

He sees himself in Donghyuck's eyes. Wobbly. Watery. Not quite put-together yet.

"Do you want to stop?" Mark asks quietly.

An infinity passes. Two infinities.

Or maybe just two seconds.

It's hard to tell time when Donghyuck is with him.

Donghyuck tilts his head up, considering Mark's question with more composure than Mark had anticipated.

"You're not... mad?"

"Why would I be?"

Donghyuck's lips frown. "I lied to you."

Mark's lips quirk. "I'm a Slytherin."

Frown deepening, Donghyuck says, "No. I mean. I'm not... I'm not a good Veela like you thought. Not... a typical one."

"Huh. No, I suppose not."

"But you still...you still want to..."

Mark's tired of the space. He kisses the corner of Donghyuck's mouth, uncaring that he's making Donghyuck taste his own taint.

"You're the sexiest fucking thing I've ever seen," Mark says, "and I do want to fuck you with my cock. I want to make you cry again, and this time, I want to hear it, all of it."

Donghyuck shivers but kisses Mark back.

"You're so vulgar," he says, wrinkling his nose.

That earns him a chuckle.

Mark shucks off his slacks and laughs again at Donghyuck's embarrassed cough.

"On my lap," Mark says. Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, "Please?"

Please seems to do the trick.

Donghyuck shuffles forward. They fall together, a tangle of limbs, of wandering hands, of wandering mouths. Donghyuck might still be a virgin, but he's definitely had some experience; he focuses on sucking hickeys on Mark's neck with cloying, teasing bites. Mark replies by kissing his hair, his ears, the side of his jaw, any available place he can find.

All the while, Mark lays out, in explicit detail, what he's going to do to Donghyuck.

Wetting his dick with Donghyuck's spit and pre-come. Lying Donghyuck down on the bed, ass up, and fucking him doggy-style. Enveloping Donghyuck until no part of them isn't touching. A hand on his throat, another wrapped around his dick. Slow, careful thrusts that become wilder and more frantic as time passes.

"Just do it," Donghyuck says, clinging onto him and starting to ride his thigh, "just do it, just fuck me, now, now—"

There's the slightest bit of desperation in his voice, but more than anything else, his words carry power and magic and the tangible, palpable magnetism of a Veela. Like before, when he'd given Mark a striptease, or when he'd influenced Mark to come to bed with a single, flirtatious glance, he's using the bloodlust he inspires in men like a sword.

And, really, Mark is just a man.

"Okay," Mark says, cock heavy and blood singing, heat and desire engulfing him again like a bonfire, "okay, just look at me, just _look_ at me, Donghyuck, please."

Donghyuck obliges him.

He looks at Mark with his beautiful slate eyes, with his thick, damp, clotted eyelashes, and Mark falls again. It feels like the first time he ever rode a broom, and he didn't know to hold on to it, that if he didn't cling with all of his might, he would be lost to the sky, the wind, the clouds.

"It's going to hurt," Mark tells him. "We can stop."

Donghyuck is still sitting on his lap, facing him, and that won't be the most comfortable position for his first time, either.

"I don't care. Do it now."

Mark shakes his head. He wraps his hand around his cock, pumps it a few times until it's at full mast, lines it with his own spit, and tells Donghyuck, "Don't say I didn't warn you."

"I won't."

Mark gives him one last chance to flee.

"I'm not patient," he says, pressing his forehead against Donghyuck's. "I won't be patient now, even if it is your first time."

"I already _told_ you," Donghyuck purrs. The sound drives Mark insane. "If you don't fuck me, I'll get someone downstairs to do it."

To call Mark jealous would be an understatement. The rage, the envy, boiling in his veins, his capillaries, all the way to his arteries is enough to make him clamp Donghyuck's chin.

"Shut up," he says, succinctly.

What he doesn't say is: You're mine. Maybe not forever, but at least for tonight.

"Make me," Donghyuck says.

He ought to lose points for lack of creativity, but Mark can't deny him anything.

He smashes his lips against Donghyuck's, licking the seams of his mouth. At the same time, he pushes his cock inside of Donghyuck.

Donghyuck's entire body tenses, pulsates, contorts in on itself, but he doesn't complain, and Mark doesn't take mercy on him. He urges Donghyuck to open his mouth, distracts him by nibbling on his upper lip, and slides the rest of his cock inside of him. It's a slow, suffocating slide, with Donghyuck's walls clamping around him like a vice, but they make it work.

"Does it hurt?" Mark murmurs, pulling away from Donghyuck's mouth.

Donghyuck whimpers. "No."

Liar.

"It'll stop soon," Mark says, and then: "We should've used a lubricating charm."

"They took my wand."

"Mine too."

"Mark?"

"Yeah?"

Donghyuck's voice is small. "I want it to feel good."

Mark closes his eyes and curses himself. _I won't be patient with you?_ Why the _fuck_ had he said that?

"It will," Mark says, hovering his fingers over Donghyuck's waist. "You just have to adjust first."

"You said you wouldn't wait."

"Turns out," Mark breathes, "Slytherins are liars."

Donghyuck smiles. "So are Veelas."

"Hmm." Mark kisses the tip of his nose for the hell of it. "I think, in another life, you'd be in the same House as me."

"No. I'd be in the House with the lions. The red one."

"That's the least sexy thing I've ever heard you say," Mark complains. "Please, please stop."

"I don't want to."

Then, he does something that Mark wasn't expecting: He slides up, then pushes himself back down on Mark's cock, bouncing experimentally.

Mark groans, unable to suppress the sound.

"Donghyuck," he says, pinching his waist in protest, "what are you doing?"

"How do I say this... I think I am... impaling myself on your cock?"

"Donghyuck," Mark says, yet again, "you'll _hurt_ yourself."

"Maybe," Donghyuck says, smiling like a demon, like a beast hiding in the woods, like all the Veelas in all of the fairytales, "but at least, you'll make me feel good, right? Right, Mark?"

There's something about the way he says all of this. It's that hint of demureness, as if he's relinquishing all of his power to Mark, as if he's leaving everything in his hands—but he's not. Mark knows he's not, Mark knows it's just another ploy, another way to circumvent his brain by appealing to his dick, but he's damned if he doesn't work.

"Fine," he says, " _fine_."

He thrusts up, setting a steady pace. Donghyuck meets him, each forward motion meant with a downward one, the opposites canceling, the distance between them declining, until they're both in the same spot, in the same moment. Until their bodies get lost in each other, and Mark can't tell which sweat is his or Donghyuck's or which moans are his or Donghyuck's or which pleasure is his or Donghyuck's.

It's not gain/loss.

It's something entirely different, something that has Mark pulling Donghyuck's sweaty body even closer, enveloping him like he said he would. He pounds into Donghyuck without abandon, all his inhibitions being replaced by a frantic urge to claim and hold and—

And—

"Mark," Donghyuck chants, "Mark, more, more, _donne m'en plus_ , Mark!"

Mark pushes him back on the mattress until he's lying face-down in the now-dirty bedsheets. His head is ringing. His body is thrumming. He does what he promised: He forces Donghyuck's hips up, until his ass is in the air, and then he pistons into the Veela.

Donghyuck meets him, inch for inch, mile for mile. Arching his back as he rolls his hips, he makes Mark see constellations in the back of his eyelids.

Mark wants to praise him, wants to compliment him, wants to talk dirty to him, wants to say, _darling, you look so good on my dick, so pretty on my dick, almost like you belong here, huh?_ But he can't, he can't even form syllables at this point; all he can do is reach over and engulf Donghyuck in his arms again.

For his part, Donghyuck is making aborted, _uh uh uh_ noises that aren't quite screams but that are close enough. He intersperses them with Mark's name; it's like he's forgotten anything else. He's loud enough to push through the chaotic din in Mark's head, at any rate, which means he's probably loud enough that everyone in the bar can hear them.

And _that_ thought—the thought of everyone knowing he's getting fucked by _Mark_ —is primal enough to speed Mark towards his own release.

Right before it happens, at the very last second, he reaches around Donghyuck's waist and thumbs the underside of his heavy, leaking cock.

Donghyuck spasms, throwing his head back onto Mark's shoulder as he orgasms. He collapses on the bed, worn-out, sweaty, utterly boneless, just like Mark wanted.

Mark spills his release inside of Donghyuck and pulls out before his cock finishes softening.

Donghyuck rolls over on his side, spent, and Mark draws him in his arms.

"You were perfect," Mark whispers, pressing a soft kiss in his hair. "So perfect for me."

Donghyuck protests, but he doesn't stop Mark from pressing one last, lingering kiss to his head.

## ❧

You don't notice something is wrong at first. You wake up, rub the sleep out of your eyes, and wonder what the consequences would be if you just decided to fall back asleep. Your head is empty, or it's swirling with vague dreams.

Then you notice the ache in your legs—the coldness of your sheets. Then you remember what you did, on that bed, and who you did it with.

Last, of all, you realize you are alone, and the sunlight is bright enough that it blinds.

## ❧

Donghyuck is polite enough to write him a note.

_The bartender, Gregoire, has Floo Powder. Headmistress Dampierre's private channel will be open until mid-noon._

Truthfully, the first two lines aren't too bad. A little cold, maybe, but Mark can handle iciness. He can handle the awkwardness.

He doesn't know how to handle the last two lines, scrawled in a hurry like Donghyuck hadn't figured out how to articulate what he wanted to say.

_Don't talk to me at Hendery's celebratory dinner. Don't ask me why I did it. You know why._

## ❧

Someone wins the Triwizard Tournament.

It does not matter who.

What matters is the second round of the Tournament. For this round, the Champions from Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang were tasked with returning with their loved ones by sunset.

Out of the three, Kunhang 'Hendery' Wong is the undisputed winner.

## ❧

an unfinished epilogue:

((The Summer Eve's ball is the kind of affair that Malfoys are typically invited to. Mark is a Malfoy. He goes to these types of things, but that doesn't mean he has to be excited about it. He's so unexcited, in fact, that Mum smacks the back of his head affectionately and tells him to fix the frown on his face.

"I bought your dress robes from Seoul," she says as if that means anything. "They'll look wonderful on you, so hurry up and put them on."

"They look exactly like the robes you bought in Diagon Alley," Mark points out.

Thankfully, his Mum has a sense of humor and heaps of patience. She laughs and says, "I didn't Portkey to France to deal with your sass, son. Put them on, for me, and let's go to the gardens."

That's exactly what ends up happening.

The gardens are lit with floating candles. Druids float by, singing sweetly and offering the guests platters of mulled wines and the finest, stinkiest cheeses. The tables heave under the weight of even more delicacies: towers of cakes and macaroons, piles of ham sandwiches, and miniature fountains filled with bubbling chocolate. It's dusk, so the grounds are washed in oranges and mauves. Everything smells like rich incense and perfume. At the far end of the garden, near the Headless Statue of Magistrate Pierre Victoire IV, Headmistress Dampierre is entertaining one of Mark's favorite professors from Hogwarts, Professor Longbottom.

"Your friends are here, aren't they?"

"Better be," Mark mutters. "I wagered Johnny twenty galleons they'd all show up."

"That seems like a poor choice, son."

"I was trying to be optimistic."

"That doesn't sound like you. I would stick with pragmatism."

" _Mum_. Aren't you supposed to be encouraging?"

"Since when?"

"Since... oh, whatever. Can you bugger off now? It's weird being babysat by my Mum when I've basically already graduated."

He dodges the slap she aims at the back of his head, but doesn't manage to escape from the kiss she plants on his cheek. The latter is infinitely more embarrassing.

"Yah," she says, switching to Korean, "finishing your eighth year doesn't mean you can talk to your Mum like that, understand? You're still my baby, and I'm allowed to spend as much time with you before you go off gallivanting across the globe."

"It's only two years, Mum."

"Only two years? Don't make me hit you again!"

He relents and gives her a brief hug to stave off a heart attack. She welcomes it gracefully like she always does, and he whispers in her ear, "Don't change anything in the manor before I come back."

"I won't. It'll be exactly the way you remember it."

"Thanks, Mum."

She kisses him again before strolling away. Ever since she divorced Dad, amicably, or so they both keep saying, she's started looking for new life partners at every place she goes to. Mark wants to be annoyed with her, but he isn't, really. It must be lonely, the place she's at now.

"She looks a lot like you," Hendery notes.

"I was waiting for you to show up," Mark mutters. "Vanishing charm? Again?"

"I don't like crowds."

Mark exhales through his mouth. "So, I've been told."

Hendery takes that as permission to stand next to him. He's dressed in maroon and emerald robes instead of Beauxbaton's typical powder-blue. His hair is styled in a quiff, and most guys can't pull that off without looking like an arsehole, but Hendery manages. All things considered, he's not a terrible person, even if Mark wants him to be.

"He's not coming," Hendery says quietly. "He told me last night."

Sagging, Mark laughs a touch bitterly. "I used to think he was brave. Turns out, he's even more of a coward than me."

"That's not fair."

"Like you would know."

Hendery shrugs. "I think I do, because he's my best friend."

Mark doesn't know what to say to that. He needs a drink.

"You should tell him," Hendery says just as Mark is about to flag a druid. "The second round. You should tell him what it means."

"He knows what it means. Everyone knows what it means. Dampierre made it very clear what it all meant at your dinner, Wong."

"He doesn't know what you _did_ ," Hendery says. "And, frankly, I think you should tell him."

"Maybe," Mark muses, a smile tugging at his lips, "I'll write him a letter."))

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
> -Le Lac de Désirachés - technically not real French, I mashed up 'le lac des désirs cachés' which means the lake of hidden desires.  
> -S'il te plait - the informal please. Alixandre uses it bc he refuses to speak formally to a British boy who's like centuries younger than him.  
> -Mon Dieu - My God  
> -Mais oui - but of course  
> -C'est la vie - this is life; in context, it basically is a, "it is what it is"  
> -Je ne peux pas croire que ça t' a pris si longtemps: I can't believe it took you this look  
> -L’île aux Étoiles - the Island of Stars  
> -J'ai besoin de - I need to  
> -Tu peux pas - you can't  
> -Baise moi, maintenant - fuck me, now  
> -Pourquoi - why  
> -Merde - shit  
> -Donne m'en plus - give me more
> 
> \---  
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> 
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